4 comments/ 19282 views/ 5 favorites Past Perfect By: Alessia Brio The ease with which Jacqueline Manceaux breezed through life provided a perpetual source of annoyance for Denise. She shone like the sun, even in her darkest hours, and to be fair, she had more than her fair share of them. Denise strove not to take any sort of snide comfort in the misfortune that often befell Jacquí, as she was affectionately called by the hordes of her closest friends. In contrast, Denise felt like an ogre in Jacquí's company. On those rare days when she felt well above average on the attractiveness scale, Jacquí would arrive at the office in a sleek and stylish new designer suit and steal what little attention Denise hoped to garner. The leggy blonde epitomized sexy and had enough smarts not to need good looks to succeed in the business world. To add insult to injury, she had the nerve to be one of the nicest people Denise had ever met. No one, not even Mother Teresa, deserved to be that close to perfection. Jacquí strolled past her office carrying her typical bagel and coffee. She lifted the foam cup in a g'morning salutation and gave a megawatt smile that might as well have been nails on a chalkboard for its impact on Denise's mood. Even at eight forty-five on a Monday, the woman looked like a taller version of Heather Locklear in a power suit. Prettier, too, with all the beauty and none of the harder edges. The glass walls allowed Denise to follow her progress down the hall. Denise hated the fact that she spent so much time trying to find fault with Mademoiselle Manceaux, some chink in the "charmor" that would enable her to legitimately despise the bitch. Maybe she abused small animals or kicked homeless people as they slept on the street. One could only hope. Shaking herself from the vortex of her thoughts, Denise returned her attention to the day's schedule. Few people wanted to look at real estate during the morning hours on weekdays, so Denise used the time at her desk to return phone calls, schedule building inspections, challenge property tax assessments, and scour the newspapers online for For Sale By Owner ads. Her commissions didn't suck, but they could be better. Denise longed to have the finesse other agents used to reel in the reluctant do-it-yourselfers. Jacquí, unsurprisingly, led the firm in signing FSBOs. She also bagged more than a fair share of the sweet multi-million dollar estate listings. The busywork made the morning pass quickly, and Denise's stomach reminded her that she'd skipped breakfast. She tidied her desk, signed off her computer, and retrieved her purse from the bottom desk drawer, intending to grab a soup-and-salad special in the building's basement cafeteria. "You look nice today," a dulcet voice called from the doorway accompanied by a light one-knuckle knock. Even Jacquí's vocal cords evoked envy. When Denise looked up, she continued, "Well, you always look nice, but I especially like you in green. Brings out your eyes. Um, sorry to interrupt, but can I talk to you for a minute? It won't take long." In spite of herself, Denise beamed. To be first complimented, then wanted—for whatever reason—by this ultra-smooth, ultra-savvy woman made her ego momentarily swell with pride. It didn't take long, however, for the inner cynic to squelch that elation. "I'm on my way to lunch." She enjoyed the flash of disappointment on Jacquí's face. Unable to maintain the brusque dismissal, Denise capitulated, "But you're welcome to join me. I'm just going downstairs for a quickie. I have to show an apartment at one on the other side of the city." Jacquí grinned. "Let me grab my purse. Be right back." With that, she scurried down the hall as fast as her butter-cream Prada pumps would carry her. Denise forced herself not to admire the retreat. Before she could count to twenty, Jacquí returned with her matching butter-cream Prada handbag. Denise tucked her Coach knock-off under her arm. She felt good about the purchase when she impulsively dropped forty dollars on it last weekend. Now she just felt like as much of an imposter as her bag. Without matching faux-Coach shoes, she even failed as a competent fraud. The urge to compete was strong, but Denise knew that she could spend every spare moment at the gym and every spare dollar on clothes and still not even come close to stealing Jacquí's thunder. To deflect attention from her perceived physical flaws, Denise strove to make herself indispensable in every other endeavor. That urge to overcompensate made her angry. Her envy angered her further. It wasn't as if Denise lacked either beauty or brains. She knew she could hold her own in most circles, even around much younger women, but Jacquí made her feel like a mutt. They shared idle chit-chat in the elevator and as they wove through the lunch line. More than once, Denise wondered what was up. Jacquí declined several invitations to join other groups, opting instead for a small two-person table against the far wall. Once seated, she decided to cut to the chase, as Jacquí seemed reluctant. "So, what did you want me for?" she asked, mentally kicking herself for phrasing the question in that way. Jacquí raised a perfectly-plucked eyebrow but didn't otherwise react to the unintentional innuendo. "You know I just moved into a new place, right? The Garden Towers on sixty-fifth?" She paused to allow Denise time to nod in recognition of the exclusive luxury condos. "Well, I'm having a little dinner slash housewarming party on Friday night—just a dozen or so friends. Nothing fancy or anything, just come-as-you-are. And, well, I was hoping you'd come... as you are, of course. Do you have other plans?" Denise attempted to decide if microwave popcorn and a stack of rented DVDs qualified as other plans and concluded that, yes, it did. She must've hesitated a bit longer than she realized, though, because Jacquí spoke before she was able to formulate a plausible excuse for declining the invitation. "Did I do something to offend or upset you? I get the feeling that you don't..." Jacquí paused, apparently struggling to form the words for such a foreign concept, "...like me." "No, Jacquí, you haven't done anything to offend me." Other than exist, she wanted to snarl. Other than to grate on my every nerve with your face and your body and your hair and your clothes and your success and your sparkling fucking personality. Green, Denise decided, was not her color in spite of Jacquí's earlier compliment. "Then you'll come?" It was Denise's turn to raise an eyebrow, and she gave Jacquí an "A" for Aplomb in the face of it. Such composure should be rewarded, even if grudgingly. "Sure. I'll stop by. Can I bring anything?" "Do you have any of that wine left from the vineyard property you sold last month? I heard through the... um, grapevine," she chuckled at her little play on words, "that the sellers gave you a case as a bonus. If you have any left, I'd really like to try it." Denise agreed and, with that business settled, they finished their lunches over light office gossip and speculation regarding the outcome of the softball tournament between the area's competing real estate agencies. Past Perfect One fear must've overridden the other, for Jacquí's hands slowly traveled up her body to cup her breasts. She paused there, fingertips poised over her hardened nipples. Denise held her gaze until those fingertips began to pinch and Jacquí's eyes fluttered closed. When she stopped and opened her eyes, Denise prodded. "Keep going. Your hands are mine. Show me...and don't stop unless I tell you to." Jacquí leaned against the door and resumed teasing her nipples. Her eyes again closed and her mouth dropped open as the sensations intensified. Fighting the urge to take over, Denise snuck around the corner and grabbed one of the chairs from the dining room. As quietly as she could, not wanting to interrupt Jacquí's focus, she parked the chair about five feet from the door and straddled it, arms folded atop its back and chin resting on her forearms. She knew when Jacquí opened her eyes, she'd have an unobstructed view of her wet panties. "Touch your pussy," Denise instructed in a firm, but barely audible, whisper. Jacquí's eyes shot open, fear flashing briefly until rebellion overtook it. "I never imagined you'd be the dominant type." "Don't give me that bullshit. You're getting exactly what you wanted. The sooner you admit that, the sooner we can stop pissing around and get on with it. Now, put your damned hand in your pants." Denise had no idea if Jacquí had any sexual experience with women. She attended all company functions with a male escort, but that was hardly surprising. Someone as business savvy as Jacquí would undoubtedly have a beard for such purposes. Since they didn't cross paths in other social venues, and Denise didn't partake of the office gossip, she realized knew next to nothing about the sultry beauty's private life. Not that it really mattered in the moment. She watched as Jacquí unbuttoned her jeans and slipped one delicate hand into them, her wrist remaining visible above the waistband of a pair of brilliant blue panties. "Push your jeans down. I want to see your fingers working. Better yet, take them off." With her head cocked to one side, Jacquí shrugged out of the tattered denim. She kicked the garment aside and, taking a couple steps forward, propped the ball of one foot on the chair between Denise's legs. Perfectly pedicured toes teased the hem of the skirt as it stretched taut across her spread thighs. The spice-tinged scent of Jacquí's arousal filled the space between them, and Denise licked her lips. "Continue." The exhibitionism tested the boundaries of Jacquí's composure, and Denise enjoyed the expressions that flitted across her fair features. At first, her fingers moved tentatively, but soon embarrassment surrendered to intense desire aided by dogged determination. Denise waited until she believed Jacquí to be fully absorbed in her own pleasure before again speaking. "Stop." Roughly pushing Jacquí's foot from the seat of the chair, she stood and spun it around. While her hands unknotted her belt, she instructed Jacquí to kneel. Denise repositioned herself on the chair, facing forward, and scooted her bottom to its edge. Trailing the ends of the coarse rope belt across Jacquí's bare back, she said, "You know what to do." The eyes looking up at her held both contempt and gratitude as their face moved between Denise's legs. A hot tongue pushed her thong into her crevice, and teeth pulled it out. Again. Denise wove the fingers of her free hand through Jacquí's hair and yanked her head up to find eyes drunk with passion. "Take them off." Jacquí obeyed and immediately returned her mouth to its task, murmuring her enjoyment as she did so. The first swipe of the rope across her ass caught her by surprise, and she grasped the legs of the chair with both hands as she braced for more. "You eat pussy like you've done it before," Denise growled, delivering yet another stinging blow. The growing welts on the tanned and toned flesh did as much for her arousal as the oral attentions. Perfection marked by pain. It seemed to stir Jacquí as well, for each blow increased the vigor with which her mouth attacked. Jacquí used the legs of the chair to pull her face harder against Denise's sex, and the repeated impact of the rope drew forth moans that resonated through her clit. Every time she started to slide into bliss, however, her guard would go up. Still wary of Jacquí's motivations, she couldn't quite relax enough to come. The spanking helped, but she still sensed that she was being used for some unknown purpose—something beyond sex. Jacquí surrendered far too easily, and Denise felt she was missing a critical piece to the erotic puzzle. Without that understanding, she refused to give Jacquí the satisfaction of making her come. The physical release would only bring emotional vulnerability. Denise realized, in that moment, there was only one outcome that would bring her any measure of comfort. "Stop."